by Odom, Mel
Seizing his scimitar from the muddy ground, Haarn glanced at Druz, then quickly looked away. He looked self-conscious.
“She’s …” he said. “She’s a … friend.”
Despite the tension of the moment and the unexplained appearance of the elf, Druz almost smiled in disbelief. She couldn’t understand Haarn’s deference to the strange elf. Since she’d known him she’d never seen him defer to anyone, but with the elf he acted like a student facing a harsh taskmaster.
“She shouldn’t be here,” the elf said. “She has the stink of city upon her.”
Druz’s ears burned in embarrassment and anger, but it was hard to be rancorous with someone who had just saved her life.
“I know,” Haarn agreed. “Other business brought us together, business that I had no say in.”
“You always have a say in the things you do, Haarn,” the elf said. “I’ve always taught you that.”
Blood tracked Haarn’s face. He squatted and checked on Broadfoot then glanced over his shoulder as he tended the bear.
“If I could have gotten rid of her,” he said, “I would have.”
He rummaged on the ground and found a hunk of green and white moss. Praying over it, he closed his hands, hiding the moss from view, then opened them again to reveal that the moss had become more vibrant and healthy. Working quickly, he packed the moss into the bear’s wounds.
“I didn’t give him a choice,” Druz said, giving in to the anger that overrode her fear.
The elf shot her a look and said, “If he’d chosen to leave you, woman, you wouldn’t be here.”
The elf squatted and ran his fingers through the gray-white ash. He felt the consistency, smelled it, then put a pinch of the ash on his tongue. His face turned lemony tight and he spat the ash out.
“Dead things,” muttered the elf.
Finished with the bear, Haarn pushed himself erect again and said, “The skeleton remains free.”
“Which way?” the elf asked.
He stood with easy grace and Haarn pointed.
“How did you come to follow it?”
“The business I had with the woman put me close to where it dug up itself from the ground,” Haarn said.
The elf frowned at the pile of gray-white powder and asked, “The skeleton had the power to create this shambler?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve fought skeletons before?”
“Of course I have,” Haarn said. “I faced my first skeletons with you.”
“So you did. Have you ever seen one then or since that can handle magic like this?”
Haarn shook his head and started forward in the direction the skeleton had taken. Broadfoot lifted his big head and whined a little. The bear put his front paws out and tried to rise but couldn’t get up the strength.
“There’s a jewel in its chest,” Haarn said as he pushed himself into a jog, slogging through the water. The elf followed.
“What kind of jewel?”
“I don’t know,” Haarn admitted. “I didn’t get a good look at it, but I know it created that false shambler.”
“That creature was very strong,” the elf said. “If it had been any more powerful, I might not have been able to destroy it.”
Staggering forward, Druz felt her body screaming as she took up their rapid pace. They plunged seemingly without effort through the uneven land and brush that constantly threw Druz’s own gait off and slapped at her eyes. She didn’t know what reserves Haarn must have been drawing from after the frantic pace they’d been traveling at since morning and the beating he’d taken from the shambler.
Just as black spots started swimming in Druz’s vision and her breathing was beginning to burn the back of her throat, she saw the druids—the elf was surely another druid—slip through the wall of brush and scraggly trees. The land sloped down and water that had been lazy and stagnant on the marsh gathered speed as it tumbled down the long, steep descent ahead.
Gazing at the broken ground, shading her eyes with one hand, Druz saw where several streams had formed and bled off into a small river that roiled between two irregular banks. Nearly a quarter-mile away, the skeleton kept up its steady pace. It pumped its arms, running hard and throwing out clods of mud from its skeletal feet.
“There,” Haarn said, pointing.
The elf glanced at him and asked, “Can you shift?”
“Not now,” Haarn said.
Nodding, the elf lifted his arms.
“The skeleton is very powerful,” Haarn warned.
He turned and jogged along the edge of the steep dropoff, looking down.
“So am I,” the elf said.
He held his hands straight up, and as she watched, Druz saw the elf shrink and sprout feathers at the same time. In seconds, he was a great horned owl, almost identical to the one she’d seen Haarn turn into.
The owl took to the skies, leaning forward and falling over the edge. Spreading his wings, the great bird caught the wind and leveled off in a steep glide that took him straight toward the skeleton.
Haarn found a less steep section of the incline and started down. Druz followed him, nearly falling half a dozen times in the first three steps.
“You know this elf?” she asked, watching the owl bear down on his quarry.
“Ettrian,” Haarn said.
He released his hold on the incline and slid twenty feet down. A cascade of falling mud and rock followed after him, breaking like a wave over his head and shoulders.
Druz sheathed her long sword and removed the scabbard and belt from her waist. She gripped the weapon in both hands as she stepped off the incline and slid after Haarn. The passage was rough and bruising, but she caught herself at the end of it, not surprised that the druid was already in motion. As they slid down the next section, Druz saw the great horned owl fold his wings and drop.
When Ettrian reached the ground, he stood on human legs again.
“He …” Druz hesitated. “He walked out of a tree.”
Haarn slid again, making his way to the level land. “I haven’t yet learned that spell,” he replied.
Ettrian reached into his cloak and drew out a quarterstaff as he faced the skeleton. Druz had heard of magical cloaks with pockets like bags of holding, though she’d never seen one before.
She gathered herself at the end of the final slide, drew her long sword from its scabbard, and kept the scabbard in her left hand. She ran, pushing herself to match Haarn’s pace.
Seeing the elf druid square off against the skeleton, Druz worried that they might arrive too late to aid Ettrian against the skeleton. She pushed herself harder, feeling muddy clumps in her hair bang against her head and shoulders, feeling the burn through her fatigued muscles, hearing the rasp of her own breath as she tried in vain to fill her lungs again. If they arrived in time, what was there to say that the skeleton wouldn’t summon yet another shambler to act as its guardian?
The skeleton lashed out at Ettrian. Using the quarterstaff, the druid knocked the blows aside and returned a few of his own, succeeding in driving the skeleton back. A familiar, somber look played on the druid’s face, and Druz recognized it as a look Haarn often wore.
Whirling, Ettrian dodged a blow meant to take off his head, took a quick step to the side, then rammed the quarterstaff between the skeleton’s ribs and twisted violently. Bone snapped off, and the sound reached Druz’s ears over the slapping noise of Haarn’s feet and hers meeting the muddy ground.
When Ettrian stepped away, tearing free several of the skeleton’s ribs, Druz saw the crimson flash of the ruby falling from the thing’s rib cage. The elf increased the level and speed of his attacks, aiming his quarterstaff at the skeleton’s head.
Druz didn’t know if smashing the skeleton’s skull would stop it.
Kneeling, the skeleton grabbed a fistful of mud and slung it toward the druid’s face. Ettrian dodged and darted for the gem lying in the mud. Before he could reach it, the jewel blazed with unholy crimson light and a bolt o
f power crackled through the air. When the bolt touched Ettrian, the force lifted him from his feet and threw him backward more than two dozen paces.
“No!” The word ripped from Haarn’s lips in full-throated agony.
Stumbling, obviously wracked with debilitations of its own, the skeleton reached down and picked up the jewel.
Ettrian used his quarterstaff to push himself up. His hide armor had protected him from part of the magic attack, but it was charred and torn, showing raw, red meat underneath. Spotting the horrendous burns covering the druid’s flesh, Druz didn’t understand how he was still conscious, much less able to move.
Balancing on his quarterstaff, Ettrian reached back into his cloak. Pulling his hand out, he flung it at the skeleton. Druz was close enough that she saw the small objects released from the druid’s hand.
Despite his wounds, Ettrian had thrown with accuracy. The four small pellets all landed within the vicinity of the skeleton, and Druz was sure that at least two of them had struck the undead creature.
The four objects exploded, throwing out huge gouts of fire. The concussion blasted hot air over Druz and knocked her from her feet. She rolled to her side, her head spinning from the exertion and the lack of air as her lungs ached and burned from the acrid smoke.
Staring through the smoke, she saw Haarn pushing himself back to his feet only a few feet away. Soot stained the half-elf’s face and arms, broken by splashes of yellow and orange mud.
“Silvanus’ mercy,” Haarn whispered, “will this dead thing not return to the grave?”
Looking through the billowing smoke, Druz stared in disbelief at the skeleton. One of its arms had been blown off by the series of explosions and one foot was missing, but still it stood on the stump and reached out again for the jewel.
“Haarn,” Ettrian called, “don’t let it take the jewel.”
The elf hobbled toward the skeleton, a look of dark intent on his soot-stained face.
The skeleton hobbled away from him, stumbling on one good foot through the craters that had been left by the explosive spell. It folded the jewel up under its remaining arm and bared its fangs, showing spaces where even more teeth had been knocked out. As it continued moving, the skeleton’s lower jaw dropped away, giving a clearer view of the fragile spine holding the cracked skull in place.
Haarn, still limping, rushed forward, his scimitar bared in his fists. Closing on the skeleton, the half-elf raised his blade and drew back to swing. Instead of slicing through the spine as he’d obviously intended, Haarn swung through open air. The jewel glowed fiercely, and the ground opened up and sucked the skeleton down. Only a small mound remained to mark the skeleton’s passage.
Reversing his blade, Haarn drove it deeply into the ground. It stopped when only half the length of the blade had sunk into the mud, but Druz knew the skeleton wasn’t there. Whatever magic had flared from the jewel had taken it away.
“Haarn?” the elf asked.
Looking up, his eyes looking haunted in his scorched and soot-stained face, Haarn shook his head.
“We’ve let it escape,” the elf said. “We had our hands on it and could have prevented some of this madness, but we let it escape. There’s only one place that thing would be headed.”
Ettrian swayed drunkenly as he balanced on his quarterstaff. Glancing to the east, he pointed with his chin.
“It could only have been called forth by Borran Klosk,” Ettrian said, his voice growing weaker.
The name stirred more fear inside Druz. Even before the horror stories of the Taker spread over the Vilhon Reach there were stories of Borran Klosk. The legend of the evil mohrg rang through every alehouse and tavern. When men gathered to tell stories of what might have been and what might be, Borran Klosk’s name was never far from their lips.
“Borran Klosk is dead,” Druz said.
“Yes,” Ettrian agreed, “and returned yet again. I was given word from the Elder Circle only this morning. Every druid who can answer has been called to Alaghôn to stand against the evil.” He paused. “It looks like you might yet live to see a city as you’ve desired, Haarn.”
Druz listened to the exchange, noting the resentment in the elf druid’s words despite his weakness and pain.
“No,” Haarn said. “I told you I never wanted to see a city, never wanted to be—”
“There’s a part of you that belongs to your mother, isn’t there?” Ettrian challenged, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell.
Haarn raced to the elf druid’s side.
Druz joined him and watched as Haarn pried at the burned armor covering Ettrian’s mid-section. She was surprised at the anxiety flashing in Haarn’s eyes.
Fresh blood spilled from the cracked and open blisters that had mottled the elf’s lean frame. The stink of burned meat clogged Druz’s nostrils. She put a hand over her mouth and nose.
Gently, Haarn moved the elf aside and reached for the cloak. The garment’s magical nature was further revealed by the fact that it had taken little damage from the mystic bolt. Haarn reached into one of the pockets sewn into the inside of the cloak.
Even though she knew the cloak was magical, it still amazed Druz at the way the druid sank his arm into it up to his elbow. He searched frantically, and pulled a potion from the pocket. He held the glass bottle up and surveyed the pale blue liquid contained within.
“A healing potion?” Druz asked.
She marveled at the bottle. Had it been kept in a regular pouch, it would surely have been shattered.
Haarn broke the seal then reached down and cradled the elf. Tilting Ettrian’s head back, Haarn struggled to pour the liquid into him.
“Open his mouth.”
Grimly, Druz placed her hands on the wounded elf’s face. Skin and flesh tore under even the slight pressure she put on him. She almost drew her hands back.
“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt him.”
Haarn looked up at her and said, “He’s dying.”
Druz had held men who’d died on battlefields, but none of them had been cooked the way the elf had. The exposed flesh on his arms cracked open in places. She couldn’t help thinking that if she pulled at the meat it would fall off the bone. Steeling herself, she took shallow breaths and held the elf’s head.
Working cautiously and tenderly, Haarn pushed a finger against the elf’s lower lip. The flesh split and bright red blood beaded over Ettrian’s mouth and chin.
“Do it,” Druz said.
Haarn pulled the lip farther down, causing flesh to tear at the corner and reveal the elf’s crimson-stained teeth. Uncorking the potion bottle with his teeth, Haarn poured the blue-tinged liquid slowly into the elf’s throat.
For a moment, the healing potion only pooled in the elf’s mouth. Then, with a convulsive swallow, Ettrian drank the liquid. Haarn waited patiently then poured more liquid into the elf’s mouth. This time, the elf swallowed more quickly, showing signs of regaining strength. Though Druz hadn’t believed it was possible, Ettrian drained the contents of the bottle.
“What now?” Druz asked.
“We wait,” Haarn answered in a hoarse voice. His eyes never left the unconscious elf.
“Is he a friend?
Haarn hesitated then shook his head slowly and said, “Ettrian is my father.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the shadows of Mistress Talia’s cargo hold, Barnaby waited to die. At least, he wanted to die a quicker death than the monsters that prowled the merchanter promised. The huge spider-shaped woman was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen, but it was the dead man with the purple tongue that was the most lethal. Never in his twelve years of life had Barnaby ever given much thought to dying.
Another scream echoed through the hold and Barnaby cringed even tighter into the narrow space. He was small for his age, and often the butt of jokes for it, but this night he was glad of his small stature. If he hadn’t been so small he would never have been able to fit between the crates.
The scream
ing man stopped with an abruptness that left no doubt in Barnaby’s mind that he was dead.
The merchanter was only a day out from Alaghôn, headed south across the mouth of the Vilhon Reach. At least four men, two of whom had been on watch, had been lost during the first night. The captain had blamed the uncommonly rough seas and the storm winds that still racked the coast of Turmish.
“Hand me that damn lantern, I tell you!”
Barnaby recognized Ridnow’s voice, but not the fear that echoed within it. Ridnow was a seasoned sailor, a man who’d sailed the length and breadth of the Sea of Fallen Stars dozens of times, and he didn’t scare easily.
“I said, give me that gods’ damned lantern, boy, and ye had damn well best be quick about it.”
“Ye’re gonna set fire to the ship,” a younger voice shrilled.
“Ain’t ye got it through that thick knob of yers, boy? That there’s Borran Klosk an’ he ain’t here to take none of us back alive. It’s yer choice whether ye dies like a man or ye end up spitted on that foul tongue of his.”
Gathering his courage, knowing Ridnow and the younger man were close by, Barnaby peered around the corner of the crate. He stayed so close to the crate that the effort earned him a new splinter in his cheek.
Lantern light threw dancing shadows against the walls of the cargo hold. Ridnow stood near a stand of wine barrels. He was a man of normal height but deep-chested and broad-shouldered. Clutching the lantern in one fist, Ridnow held a bloody, double-bitted dwarven battle-axe in the other. The younger man was Deich, a sailor Barnaby knew but not well.
To see the fear so clearly etched on the sailor’s face was disheartening. Tears came to Barnaby’s eyes and he wiped them away with the back of one arm.
“There’s going to be more of them, you know,” the young man said. “Every one of us he slays rises up against the rest.”
A crooked grin twisted Ridnow’s lips. “Well, that damned corpse ain’t killed us yet, Deich. Ye an’ me, we still got a chance to be heroes.”
“I don’t want to be a hero,” Deich said. “I just want to get off this ship alive.”
Thunder rumbled outside the ship and Mistress Talia heeled over hard to port. Deich stumbled and almost fell but caught himself against the line of crates that Barnaby hid behind.
